My Dinner with EnTrey
by Connell
Summary: Just a one-shot inspired by The Brothers Grim. The Cohens 2 sit down for some family time.


Disclaimer: The OC belongs to Josh Schwartz & Co.

Author's note: Just a quick one-shot inspired by _The Brothers Grim_. It's AU for every conceivable foible you can find.

A great big"thank you" goes out to **_crashcmb, _**who still rocks. The craptastic pun in the title is mine...and mine alone.

**My Dinner with EnTrey**

It was as Trey was replacing the sterling silver tongs and thanking Rosa for holding the platter of asparagus out for him to plate a few spears—offering an earnest compliment on how good it all looked—when Ryan was suddenly struck with just how incredibly _odd_ it was to be sitting across from his brother at this particular dinner table. The two of them—in this house. The ostentatious mansion the likes of which he was pretty sure neither of them had ever dared to conjure up in even his wildest of Chino dreams.

The Atwood brothers—the ones with the train wreck of a mother—and the father serving hard time for armed robbery. How incredibly mind-blowing it seemed that it was less than two years ago that the boys were arrested for stealing a car—and yet—and yet—here they were. In one of the largest houses in Newport. A uniformed maid serving them a gourmet meal—in a place Ryan had improbably come to consider his home.

Of course Ryan was also painfully aware that in the time in which he'd become accustomed to the monthly cocktail parties and semiformal events—learned to knot his own tie— and mastered the fine art of making pleasant, if idle conversation with the assorted Newpsies who still considered him a bit of a curiosity—though a now somewhat familiar figure in the Newport social scene—his brother had spent in the Chino State Penitentiary.

What had he been forced to deal with in there? Well, he'd brought it on himself—not that Ryan let his mind delve too deeply into that particular subject, in any event.

The absurdity of the situation wasn't lost on Trey, either—or, it didn't appear to be—at least judging by the look he shot his little brother—during the exchange that followed Kirsten's announcement of the main course.

"Ca-what?"

"Oh—Trey—capon's really nothing more than a fancy way of saying chicken."

"And by 'fancy,' of course, my mother means 'castrated,' " Seth offered, slicing into his piece of meat with pointed, if not particularly subtle, dramatic flair.

"I didn't—I hadn't—how is this something that you even know?" Kirsten floundered, picking up the glass in front of her and taking a quick sip.

"I—well—actually—I don't know how I know—but it was probably somewhere in the 200s."

"The 200's?"

"Discovery Channel—Food Network—Animal Planet maybe? Not DIY. Definitely not DIY. Because that? I'm pretty sure I'd remember."

Ryan shrugged slightly, raised his eyebrows and exaggerated a look away, taking advantage of the opportunity to move his eyes from his brother and back to his own plate before Trey found a way to make him crack up over the sheer ridiculousness of the conversation. He'd heard enough of Seth's constant prattle about him losing his edge this year without adding any extra ammunition to that particular arsenal.

Unfortunately for Ryan, Trey had a certain patented ability to set him off with little more than a dramatic cock of the head—a strategically raised or popped eyebrow—a prolonged or especially intense stare. For some reason, with just a look, Trey could cause his little brother to completely _lose his shit_—and usually at the most inappropriate of times, too. It had earned him more stinging cuffs to the ear than he cared to recall.

But, for some reason, Ryan dreaded the retribution from Seth witnessing him totally succumb to an uncontrollable fit of the giggles much more than he had ever feared the inevitable blow to the head from one of his mother's crap-assed boyfriends for the same transgression. Because, the sting from a quick shot to the head could be measured in a matter of minutes, hours—hell, days at its worst. Seth's constant harping? It had already been months. When—or even if—it would ever end? _Christ_. Only time would tell.

"Although, I suppose my mother's definition of the word 'fancy'—at least as it relates to the capon—would actually give a whole new meaning to the phrase 'fancy pants'—well not so much with the pants themselves—as with the what's in the pants—or what's not in the pants—is more what I'm saying. And all of this, of course, only if one was of the type to use a phrase such as 'fancy pants'—which—I'm—guessing—you—are—not—um—Trey—" Seth's rambling petered out under a look from Trey that questioned the exact severity of his apparent brain damage.

"So, have you heard from your mother recently?" Sandy asked affably, putting a surprisingly abrupt reversal to Ryan's silent prayers that the topic be changed and be changed immediately—before they delved any more deeply into the secret lives of chicken. Or at least those of the sack-less variety.

Trey locked eyes with his brother for the briefest of seconds, before turning to Sandy. "Uh—no—not since November—a year ago, last November—right before Thanksgiving, anyway. What about you, Ry?"

"Before then. July—maybe it was August—she did send something last Chrismakkuh, though—"

"_Chrismakkuh_? Let me guess—it's a 'fancy' word for 'Christmas?' "

"No—well—yeah, kind of—I mean it's not even a real word—it's—it's just a holiday Seth made up," Ryan offered, painfully aware of how forced his laugh sounded to his own ears.

"That hurts Ryan. That truly hurts. And it's not just any holiday, Trey. It's the uber-holiday. It's the confluence of the best that Christianity and Judaism have to offer—and it's sweeping the nation, my friend. I'm actually surprised—and let me tell you—just a little bit disappointed—that it hasn't made its way to Chino, yet. But, I guarantee you this—this I guarantee—it_ will_ be all the rage in all the prisons and in all the jails across this great country of ours come next December—not—um—not—that I think you'll be in jail next December—Trey—because if that's what you think I'm saying—well you don't know me well at all—not to say that you _do_ know me well—or really even at all—"

"I seem to recall Dawn saying that you wouldn't agree to see her when she went to visit. I'm guessing you changed your mind?" Sandy asked, putting a welcomed end to Seth's drabble.

"Yeah—well, I kind of needed a favor—and—and I didn't know how else to find out what happened to Ryan after we got busted. I tried calling the house, but the number was disconnected—so—I didn't really have much of a choice. That's how I found out about Ryan—you know—moving in here."

"That's an _interesting_ way of putting it—actually—since—what—what?" Seth recoiled slightly and crossed his hands protectively across his body, when Ryan shot him a glare.

With Seth safely shut down, Ryan turned back to his brother. "What—_exactly_—did Mom tell you, anyway—I mean about how I ended up here?"

"Just that you and AJ mixed it up after she brought you back from juvie—you threw down—it got ugly—and you took off."

"I _took off_?"

"Yeah." Trey pulled down the corners of his mouth—looked like he was trying to recall the conversation—nodded slowly in agreement with himself. "Next thing she knew you'd moved in with your lawyer—but, she'd checked up on you—and you were doing okay—you were doing better than okay."

"She actually said that she _checked up_ on me?" Ryan spat out the words—incredulous at the audacity of their mother—and the role she had assigned herself in her creative reinvention of history.

"Yeah—that's how she had the phone number."

"Man." Ryan shook his head in disgust. "She really is some piece of work—she's the one who _took off_, Trey. She only had that number because Sandy hired a couple of PIs to track her down—Sandy found her, brought her back here—only, as it turned out? Not so much with the wanting to be found."

"So, you're saying AJ _didn't_ kick your ass when you got home from juvie?"

Trey immediately picked up on Ryan's shrug—as barely perceptible as it was. "_Prick_." He muttered, before immediately adding for the Cohens' benefit, "Sorry—about the language."

"Hey, no need to apologize. If it makes you feel any better—from what little I've heard of AJ? Prick seems like an accurate description to me," Sandy offered.

"AJ and I got into it _after_ she kicked me out of the house. I called Sandy because you were in jail and—and I didn't know what else to do—I didn't have anywhere else to go. The Cohens let me stay for a few days—and when I went back—she'd moved. The house was empty. All she'd left was a note, Trey. A _note_." Ryan couldn't help but let the rancor he felt seep into his enunciation of the word.

"Man, I'm sorry, Ryan."

Ryan shrugged, "I don't even know why anything she does—or says—surprises me anymore."

"Hey—well, bright side? If there's a bright side to any of this of course—which there's not—not really—well, except for the whole Ryan moving to Newport thing, which is a definite bright side—at least for me—and I'm pretty sure for my mom and my dad as well. And, Trey—maybe even for you? But, I'm thinking that another bright side to this all is that your mom and AJ? Totally broken up by the time she came here—I mean, I do believe that your mom actually even said that she had 'dumped his sorry ass.' "

"Don't say 'ass,' Seth," Kirsten automatically admonished, before catching Trey's curious look. She flushed a little, focused on a lettuce leaf, speared it, raised it to her lips—and put it down again. When she glanced back up, Trey'd already turned his attention back to his brother.

"You're talking about when you saw her in August? Like—right after we got arrested?"

"Yeah."

"Well, then—I guess I'm not the only one Mom's been lying to, little brother."

"She's still with him?"

"Actually—I dunno." Trey shrugged. "But—I do know she was with him when she came to visit me. In November. _Christ_, I'm surprised they even let her in—she looked kind of strung out—maybe even a little drunk. And, just for the record—that favor I asked you to do on Thanksgiving? I asked AJ to do it first."

"Why would you bother? AJ hates you."

"Yeah, I know. I just kinda didn't think that Mom did, too. I was hoping she might be able to talk him into it. You know—on account of me being all busted up when she came to visit—"

"I _do not_ like the sound of this. Exactly what kind of a favor are we talking about here, Trey?" Sandy asked, pointing his wine glass at the older Atwood.

Trey shrugged, "I owed somebody some money. A lot of money. Somebody who had a couple of friends on the inside who liked to remind me about it. Ryan paid it off. And—and Ryan, I swear to you—I did not know that Gattas was going to try to kill you when you dropped off that car. We had a deal. It was a straight-up exchange. He was completely out of line. Though after what went down? Makes me wish that Mom'd gotten AJ to do it afterall. If Gattas or one of his boys took a tire iron to his head? They'd have done all of us a favor—"

"Dropped off a car? Tire iron? Tried to kill you? _Ryan_!"

Sandy's bark put a halt to Ryan's attempt at boring a hole right through the middle of his brother's forehead by sheer force of willpower. He stole a quick glance at Sandy before dropping his gaze to the tabletop, explaining, "Trey was beat up pretty badly. They weren't going to leave him alone in there until he ponied up. He asked me to do it. I did it. I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."

"Why didn't you come to us? We'd have helped you out—"

"It was 6,000. I couldn't ask you for that kind of money."

"Well yes. Actually, yes you could—and yes—yes you can. But, instead—you stole a car? You risked everything we'd worked for? Risked your probation? For 6,000?"

"I didn't steal a car—I just—I just—kind—of—_delivered it_. It was nothing I couldn't handle."

"_Handle_? Handle what? Theft by receiving? I've gotta say, '_Well done, kid_.' You've just made us all very proud."

"You know, he did come home with that black eye," Kirsten offered. "I think we were so caught up with the disaster that occurred here that night that we didn't follow up—we didn't even bother to ask what happened."

"Bruised cheek," Sandy corrected. "But, you're right. Ryan took Marissa with him—and it was the holidays—you'd just been down to visit your brother—I assumed maybe you'd had another run-in with Luke—and I didn't want to come down too hard on you—though in retrospect, I probably should have. I definitely should have. I just thought I'd give you a pass. Especially since you knew how we felt about fighting—how we feel about fighting—and you agreed not to."

"Ryan not fight?" Trey looked vaguely amused as he speared a piece of the chicken and popped it into his mouth. "You might as well ask a vacuum not to suck."

"He's actually done quite well—uh—with the not fighting," Kirsten threw some support—and a wave of her wine glass—in Ryan's direction.

"Sure—Gandhi has nothing on him—he's been the poster child for pacifism—or—well, I guess he would be—if you don't count the time he tackled Mr. Fischer at the Cotillion—or—I guess, the time he punched Luke down in Tijuana—attacked Luke at soccer practice—rumbled with the Del Vista soccer team—beat up Oliver—" Seth started to helpfully tick off a sequential list of Ryan's transgressions.

"Seth—just—cut it out," Kirsten admonished sharply.

"Oh—hey—I'm not saying it isn't a good policy. Or even a healthy one. Because, if the other night's any indication—my kid brother? Still lousy with the reading of a room."

"The _other night_? Oh, this just keeps getting better, doesn't it?" Sandy aimed an accusatory fork at Ryan. "Spill."

"It was nothing. It was the night Trey took off—the night of the launch party. When we finally tracked him down—in Chino—there was some guy there who was hitting on Marissa—he wouldn't take 'no' for an answer—and—it just kinda happened."

"You just _kinda_ punched a guy?"

"Actually—he kinda punched me first."

"See—that's what I'm talking about. In a bar full of beer bottles and pool cues, Ryan straight up punches a guy who's a foot taller and outweighs him by 50 pounds easy—"

"A _bar_," Sandy shook his head with disappointment.

"We were looking for Trey. It's where he was."

"Trey's not my concern here, Ryan. You are. Do I need to remind you that you are underaged? Or that it wasn't so terribly long ago that you were on probation?"

"No—I'm sorry."

"See, you say that. Yet—I'm not so sure you get it. I hate to break it to you, kid, but an apology doesn't mean a damn thing unless it's accompanied by a change in behavior—and your behavior, Ryan? It hasn't changed. Which—is—troubling—to say the least. Especially after everything you went through last summer—and how well you've been doing this year—or—as well as we thought you were doing this year—I thought we were finally on the right track—"

Completely unsure of how to respond, Ryan chose not to. Instead, he just kept his head bowed and his eyes lowered—fiddled with a piece of asparagus he was sure he'd never eat.

"You've got a good head on your shoulders, kid," Sandy's voice softened. "But, you've got to start using it for more than a scratching post."

"It was just Reggie's," Trey offered—in his usual misguided attempt to help. "It's in the old neighborhood. Me and Ryan used to hang out there all the time—play pool—keep an eye out for our mom—you know—make sure the drunken dirtbags left her alone—unless—of course, she wasn't looking to be left alone—then—you kind of had to let her do her thing—not that Ryan here ever really learned that—"

"_Trey_."

"Oh, c'mon, Ryan—like it's not true? The first time she hooked up with AJ, you ended up missing school for a week—and for what? She still took him home—and she left you there with a couple of cracked ribs and a busted cheek as a thank you for your effort—earned me a broken eye-socket for being stupid enough to step in—"

"Trey—just—just shut up, okay? Nobody wants to hear it," Ryan felt his ears start to burn.

"What's the big deal? It's not like anyone here's worshipping at the alter of St. Dawn. Mr. Cohen showed me the records they got on you. They know she ain't exactly in the running for mother of the year—not when her kid's got a social services file that's three inches thick—with pictures in it like the ones you got—like the ones he showed me."

When Ryan turned to him, all Sandy could offer was his best _I'm busted_ look and an apologetic grin. "Ryan—you won't talk about it. I just thought that maybe—"

"I already told you that nothing in that file means a damn thing. That part of my life—it's over."

"Just like the fighting? The impulsive behavior—or stealing a car just because your big brother tells you to?"

Sandy's words stunned Ryan into momentary silence—and stung him worse than any physical blow ever had—or ever could. He felt everything he'd worked so hard to accomplish over the past six months slip away—disappear—consumed in its entirety by the resounding disappointment in Sandy's tone. Not sure of how to defend himself, he chose to retreat instead.

Ryan abruptly pushed back from the table and stood. "Hey, look—if you want to interrogate my brother about my crappy childhood—I certainly can't stop you. He was there. He can give you a blow-by-blow account if that's what you're looking for. But, I won't stay here and listen—I've already lived through it—once is enough—and—and I'm sorry—I'm sorry if I ruined dinner."

Ryan was out the back door and halfway to the pool house, before he remembered that his brother had temporarily displaced him. Unwilling to turn around, he entered anyway, taking very little satisfaction in the sound of the door slamming behind him.

Seth was the first to break the silence at the table after Ryan's sudden departure. "Do you think I should go—see if he's okay?"

"No—hey—I got it." Trey stood up. "Knowing my little brother, he's looking to break something—or punch someone—and—well—it probably should be me—on account of—well—it was me who started this whole thing."

"Don't worry about it, Trey. It's something that should have been addressed a while back—it's something that we still need to address, once Ryan's calmed down," Sandy said.

"Ryan's a really good kid—and you guys have done so much for him—I hope—I just hope I didn't screw everything up for him."

"Ryan's a great kid, Trey—and no worries. We've already made it through a lot with him. We'll get through this, too."

"Okay—good." Trey nodded. "Because, my little brother—he never shoulda been an Atwood to begin with—he deserves better than our mom—our dad—_me_—I know that you guys probably think that I'm lousy for anything but dragging him down—getting him in trouble—which—yeah—okay—it's kind of what I do—but, that doesn't mean I don't want what's best for him—or I don't think he deserves better than the crap-assed hand he's been dealt."

"We're all on the same side, here, kid." Sandy reassured him.

"Yeah—okay," Trey nodded, turned—and left to find his brother.

_The End._

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Additional A.N.: Yeah, Rosa's been let out of the attic…she's covered in Dustin's hair…and she now lets the folks plate their own veggies. So sue me.


End file.
